DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
I always knew the consequences with having a powerful last name. Isn't it silly how a simple name determines your expectations, your life, and your future? You should fear me. They all did, for that I am a Malfoy, Melia Malfoy. My Father is Draco Malfoy, maybe you have heard about him.
Sly, hate, powerful, witty, bitch; those are some of the words they used to describe me in Hogwarts. They all respected me, and feared me, but none of them really knew me. They all loved me for my last name, and that's all I was worth. I never had real friends, perhaps I never will.
For years my fear of disappointing my Father conquered over my hatred toward him. Perhaps that was why my depression took the better half of me. I always had the urged to please him, and to make my father proud. What I ever wanted was for him to notice me again. It wasn't always like this. I remembered when I was young, Father and I were close. Mother had died in the early years of my life, and Father was all I had. He held me when I cried and loved me like a father should. I remembered those memories we used to share. Beautiful, distant memories like the sunrise we watched together. The wonderful glow of orange and yellow streaked across the surface of the sky. Each ray cast hope and fait for both of us. It was a glorious sunrise indeed. I looked back at all the words my Father used to say, and all the stories he told. He hated being a Malfoy, but his father, Lucius, forced him to be one. How Father hated it, just hated what Lucius done to him. He did the same to me; I had no choice.
When I was seven, I remembered the wand he gave to me on my birthday. It was a fine wand in fact. 7 inch, dark woods and unicorn hair. I held it in my hand carefully as if was valuable. I wanted to impress him. So badly, I wanted him to be proud. The stupid me at that time, didn't know what I was doing. I waved my wand and summoned the unforgivable curse just like how I saw Father did times before. I just wanted him to be happy with me. There was a flash of green and the owl Aunt Lysol gave to me died in his cage. I saw Father's face at that time. His crystal blue eyes reflected terror at me. Father feared my powers and me.
Everything after that was quite a blur to me. Father stopped caring slowly. He never came home for dinner with me anymore. Often I ate in the big, empty manor with the house elf, Winnie. When Father found out that I had been sharing dinner with a common house elf, he flipped with rage and shouted at me.
Failure, useless, worthless, weak, coward, and those words I heard thousands and thousands of times come out from his mouth. How much I hated those words and how much those words had brought tears to me. There was always a reason for him not to be pleased with me.
I remembered the punishments he used to make. There was one night when I was helping Winnie put the dishes away. Father caught me doing this and was displeased with my action. He sent me to the corner of the room with a knife, for me to stab at my hand for forgiveness. I was nine by then. He stood there watching over me. I remembered the first time I jabbed the knife into my flesh. Blood leaked and poured all over my hand. Pain overwhelmed me, but I told myself not to cry. I kept on going. Taking the knife out and stabbed the knife in again, then in again. Lines formed, more blood flowed. Lust red blood covered my hand, dripping down my robes and to the floor. The smell of it filled the air. I looked at my hand that was soaked in the colour of red. I felt numb all over and whispers began.
Whispers shouted, "There is no escape, just no escape."
How badly I wanted the whispers to stop, and the voices to stop shouting.
I felt tears in my eyes, but Father forbade me to cry, and he shouted at me if I did. I don't know how many time I stabbed myself. When I was done, Father walked over to me. He waved his wand, the blood magically disappeared and all was left were wounded scars: scars of reminders. There was silence for a while and then Father simply said, "I'm preparing you for a greater task."
The greater task came when I was fifteen. Father made me sold my sole to the devil. I had joined the Dark Side. I wasn't surprised because after all, I was a Malfoy. But at fifteen, I was a mere child, the youngest Death Eater. Father knew the power I had and he wanted to hold onto me, for I was his. I remembered seeing the Dark Lord that night in the forest. I didn't scream, nor was I scared. Many skilled potions' servants of the Dark Lord had restored his youthful look to the age of sixteen. The dark mark was imprinted on my flesh. I didn''t cry because I had no desire to do so. A tangle between a skull and snake emerged from my arm. I looked at the snake eyes of Master Voldemort, and I knew it was forever.
My first kill came shortly after the joining. I was caught going to Muggle party. Father with his spies, got the news to him. Father dragged me out to an empty alley and beat me with his cane. New scars formed from where old scars healed. Halfway through my pathetic screams for him to stop, a Muggle came running by. The Muggle was a boy no older than the age of fifteen. Muggles were braver than we gave credit for. Father laughed maniacally at the Muggle's attempt to stop him. The wand he handed to me shook in my hand. But I did it; I did it to please him. I watched the green flash and the Muggle died in front of me. Nice and simple death. Once again, the whispers grew louder coming from all corners, telling me I couldn't escape and there was not escape. I placed my hands over my ears, wishing they would stop, but they will never stop. The next day I walked over to a Muggle's shop and picked up what they called a newspaper. On the cover there was the Muggle boy I killed the night before, and they all thought it was a gang beat. Stupid Muggles.
After my first kill, I began to do some more. Elder servants to the Dark Lord taught me what I needed to know. By the age of sixteen, I had mastered all the curses and most of the Dark Arts. I began to join big Muggle hunts and Muggle games. I killed one person, then couples and finally whole families. It was a lust to feel screams, and to feel and the smell blood on your hand. It was a luring desire, a witch's instinct.
No matter how many kills I made, Father never cared or noticed. He beat me more than ever. He hit me because I wasn't serious about my Dark Arts; instead I was doing foolish hunts for Muggles. Father was never satisfied. The whispers got louder and more demanding. 'There is no escape' repeated in my head. I told Father, but he never listened. I couldn't take it anymore, so I burst into tears that I had been holding on for so long.
I sat alone in the middle of the floor after a Death Eater meeting. Tears must have blinded me because I never heard him come in, but whoever could anyway? Lord Voldemort stood next to me and then he sat down. I was surprised at first to find my master beside me on the floor.
"Anything wrong, Malfoy?"He asked me, noticing my tears. His voice came out half decent and half in disgust of my tears.
I wiped my tears quickly. I was scared to do anything displeasing to the Dark Lord. Anything like that would mean death.
"It's your Father isn't it?" He asked again.
This time I looked up at his face. His glowing red eyes somehow seemed dim in my teary vision. He looked appealing as a sixteen-year-old boy.
"Well answer me!" He barked, making me frightened of him once again. He laughed, noticing how childish I had been. "Come with me, Melia. I have something that would make it all better for you," he said.
Before I could refuse. He gripped me on my arm and dragged me toward a dark, dark room.
Inside his chamber room, still holding onto my arm tightly, he leaned in close.
He laughed evilly and sniffed my scent. I knew what was happening. I knew the danger I was in and tried to slip from his grip. The more I struggled, the more he laughed and his desire for me grew sinfully.
"Silly child. I have girls like you every day!" He shouted.
He shoved me to the bed that was laid out. I tried to get out, but within seconds he was on top of me. I smelled him, the familiar smell I grew an attachment to... blood, which suddenly became sickening to me. He kissed me, his tongue was like a snake and was exploring inside of my mouth. His hands crept around my body, feeling hungrily. His lip moved down my neck, each kiss burned into my flesh. He worked his hand rapidly to the collar of my robe and tearing it off, ripping and shredding off my body.
Tears were flowing down my face, as I did not believe what was happening to me. He forced himself inside me roughly, taking me into him and merging himself to me.
I shouted for my Father to save me, to rescue me.
The Dark Lord just laughed hastily. "He's not going to come. But don't worry; your sacrifice will gain him a position in the Inner Circle. He will be proud," he said, in a soft moan.
I closed my eyes and the whispers began once again. There is no escape, just no escape . . .
It seemed like a long time before he was done. Finally, he collapsed on top of me. There was a moment of silence then he lifted his head to look at me.
I turned my head to avoid him.
He smirked and cupped my face with his hand and forced me to stare at him.
"You are so good," he whispered. His warm breath was on the edge of my face. His snake tongue licked the side of my cheek, savoring his sweet victory. "I'd like to have you again, but some other time."
He let go of my face then he got up and left me alone in the dark chamber.
I sat up on the bed and felt useless and unclean. A bit of myself was gone, and I hated what I saw. I got dressed, with the robe he left for me, as quickly as I could. I grabbed my broomstick that lay in the floor where I left it and flew home.
I locked myself in the bathroom and turned on the hot water. I threw myself in it and started scrubbing, a never ending scrubbing to wash away the filthiness and dirtiness. I felt so unclean, so disgusting. I scrubbed every inch, until my body became raw, but I didn't care. I wanted this off me, the feeling of him inside of me off my body. Hot tears flowed down my face. I watched my body-- corrupted and destroyed. I felt so useless. I closed the water and sat there.
The whispers began once again. Blaring that one sentence.
"There is no escape, just no escape."
The voices were taunting and howling with laughter at me.
"There is no escape, just no escape . . . "
"Well, you're wrong!" I shouted.
I got clean robes and put it on my body. I wiped my eyes; I was not going to cry anymore.
I walked out to the living room. It was almost 7:00 in the morning. I found Father sitting on the chair. He was asleep. I walked over beside him. I reached out and stroked his ever-growing white-blond hair with my hand. I wondered if he knew what happened to me. I took his hand into mine; it felt warm between my cold skin. I remembered what the Dark Lord had promised for my sacrifice.
For all my life, I only wanted to please my Father, to make him proud of me--just for him to love me. I kissed him on the forehead.
"Goodbye Father," I whispered.
I walked out to our balcony to watch the sunrise.
But I knew I was being stupid, making myself believe the sun will rise.
As for me, the sun would never shine the same again.